


The Pick-Me-Up

by RumRollins (GreyStained)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Insecurity, M/M, Meet-Cute, tiramisu is a fantastic wingman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyStained/pseuds/RumRollins
Summary: Brock really needs this night to turn over a new leaf.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	The Pick-Me-Up

“You’re not doing a great job of hidin’ your staring.” The bitter comment comes out more tired and less heated than he’d like. Brock presses his fingers against the table they’re sitting at, hard enough to make his nails blanch.

“Huh? No, I’m not staring, what are you-“

“Yeah, you are.” His date tonight, another random guy set up for him to get him out of his hermit hovel, squirms at being cut off and his eyebrows pinch together slightly. “Thought Barton had told you about the scars.”

“He did, but man, I didn’t—”

“You weren’t expecting it to be this bad?” No one ever did. A civilian’s mind couldn’t comprehend the physical damage done when a munitions and chemicals depot lit up with your soft, human body right at the front door. It’d been decades since he sustained the injury in Iraq, and the war had ended, but the skin grafts, the whorls of permanently damaged tissue - those lasted forever. He wasn’t oblivious to the looks he got. That’s why he stayed at home in the first place.

“I wasn’t gonna say that. I was going to say that I  _ told _ him I didn’t care about any of that.”

This one’s name is Ryan. Probably. This is the fifth time in two years he’d been set up by one of the guys in group therapy to go on a date. Ryan beat the record- typically, the first question to come out of their mouths was ‘what happened to your fucked-up face?’.

(They didn’t actually say it like that, but he could pick up on subtext).

“But you care about it now.”

“No, I don’t-“

His fingers continue to dig into the table. “ ’Least you could do is not fuckin’  _ lie _ about it, come on.”

“Listen, Brock, you’ve said like,  _ three _ words since we got here, what else am I supposed to do?”

“Besides stare at me like I’m a new addition to Ripley’s?” Attention was being drawn to their table now, and that was much as he could handle. Brock lifts himself from his seat, tugging on his zip-up. “Alright, yeah, I’ve had my fill of you.”

“Brock, wait, can we just start over?”

“Nah. M’doing you a favor. Use the rest of your night to find something nicer to look at, yeah?” He yanks his hood up and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, passing their waitress, who had their appetizers on her tray, on his way out of the joint.

* * *

There was an independently owned café on his route heading home from work. He stopped in maybe once a week, whenever the courage rose in him. Decent coffee at reasonable prices, but the main attraction was their homemade tiramisu. His go-to pick-me-up for the worse days. They even made the ladyfingers themselves. It was the one object on his mind walking down the street from the pub. Ryan doesn’t try to chase him down, which saves both of them from another embarrassing encounter. He could already feel the buzz of the espresso soaking into his tongue as he shuffles past a stranger and enters the small, inviting space.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Rummy.” Calling in a slightly nasal-toned, yet amicable voice was the usual front store girl, Darcy. He’d been here often enough that the immediate greeting doesn’t make his skin prickle.

His hands are still in his pockets when he approached the counter. “Can you grab me—”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Not today, Darce,  _ please _ .”

The brunette’s lips purse slightly as she looks Brock up and down. Not staring at the scars but observing his expression. “Bad date?”

“The shittiest one yet. You got any tiramisu left in the case?”

She makes a face and bares her teeth. “I did. The guy that just walked out took the last two slices, though. Sorry, guy. Maybe somethin’ else?”

Just his goddamned luck. “Forget it, then.” His back hunches over as he turns around to leave the café.

“Brock, you know we sell  _ other _ stuff, right?”

“It ain’t the same, dammit. Seeya later, Darce.”

* * *

The cool humidity that had been hanging in the air earlier has now reached its limit, and as he walks out of the building, a thick raindrop hits his nose. It was still a three-quarter mile walk home. Walking a few paces down the sidewalk, he steps up to the curb as more rain begins to pelt down, his eyes peeled for a cab. His first shred of good fortune today is that one turns the corner a moment later, slowly pulling up to the curb.

Except that that shred was squashed immediately, as some beefy asshole cut in front of him to beat him to the car door first. His teeth grit fierce enough to almost crack, and just before the cab door shuts, he snags it and yanks it back open. The cab driver starts shouting, but he doesn’t bother listening. Not with all his energy focused on releasing all the caustic frustration that been simmering within him for the last hour. “Hey, asshole, this is my cab. Get the fuck out.”

The beefy dude, who was currently sitting in what was supposed to be Brock’s cab, turns to look at him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Huh? Sorry, didn’t see you wavin’ for one. Maybe wait for the next cab?”

“Nah, you don’t get to blow me off like that—Hey!” His eyes move to the clear plastic bag resting on the seat next to the man; inside sits a container with two perfectly-cut slices of tiramisu, dusted with the just-right amount of cocoa powder. One of which was supposed to be his. “You’re the one who took the last of it, you  _ prick _ .”

“What the hell’s your problem, man?”

“ _ Either get in the goddamn cab or leave, pal, I don’t get paid to listen to folks bicker. _ ”

Brock takes the annoyed driver’s invitation and pushes himself inside the car. “Move the fuck over, I ain’t letting you ruin my day twice.” His backseat partner, with an expression more confused than frustrated, doesn’t object, scooting over and moving the plastic bag filled with goodies to sit on his lap. “Matthews Avenue. Thanks.”

“I’m droppin’ him off first. An’ I’m running a separate meter for you, grumpy. Play nice back there.”

He doesn’t reply to that, instead pulling his soaked hoodie back down. Sure, the scars are in plain-view now, but what kind of damage can this guy do to him that hadn’t already been done?

The cab is quiet, save for the crackly pop song on the radio and the steady drum of rain on the roof. He would’ve been fine with just the background noise, but his seat buddy has to open his mouth. “I can feel you seething from over here, Jesus. Take a breath, man. Your face’ll freeze that way if you keep it up.”

That comment brings his irritation up to full-blown wrath. He whips his head to shoot a venomous glare. “Look me in the eye an’ say that again, you  _ fuck _ .”

“What’d I say about playing nice, you two?”

The stranger huffs and turns his head to look at Brock. “It’s just an expression, calm down…. Oh.” His face turns apologetic as he recognizes his error. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

“M’serious, I—I actually didn’t see you. I’m blind in this eye, I got a bad peripheral.”

The man isn’t lying, or if he is, it’s incredibly executed. In the dim light of the cab, Brock can make out his face: a slightly unfocused gaze and a scar along a jawline that could cut diamond. Not a bad looking dude. Brock’s attitude cools just a little, and he relaxes back in his seat. “Whatever.”

“What’s your name?”

“Brock.”

“Well, Brock. You mind if we start over? I feel like you got a bad first impression of me.”

It’s been a long time since someone had met his abrasive nature with such patient composure. Most people just stopped trying. He doesn’t know how to reply to it. “I mean…… sure, fine.”

“I’m Jack, by the way.”

Brock chews on the inside of his cheek, looking away to the stained upholstery of the seat. “……Alright, Jack. You…. You didn’t actually ruin my day, by the way.”

“S’good to hear. But that means something else did, huh.”

“Yeah, it’s—” He stops himself from unloading. “It’s just bullshit I deal with on a regular basis, an’ folks act like they don’t know about it. M’just so sick of it all.”

“People staring?”

“Fuck,  _ yes _ . You’d probably know a lot about that, huh?” His mouth fumbles. “Not like—sorry. I’m being an ass.”

“You are, but it’s warranted. Don’t worry about it.” Brock looks over to Jack, surprised to find a smirk pointed back at him. “I do my best to brush it off, since shit like that shouldn’t matter. But I think all that’s done is teach the idiots around me to treat it like the butt of every joke.”

“Fuck those guys.”

“Yeah, fuck ‘em. But I’m not gonna waste my energy on it. They don’t deserve it.”

“Sounds like they do. Big guy like you could put the fear of God in them real quick.”

“That’s not what I meant. They don’t deserve me wasting my energy on them. It’s been happening long enough that nothing’s going to change it.”

“So you just gave up?”

“It’s easier than picking a fight all the time.”

They go back to being quiet after that, for a time. The usual evening traffic means that they spend more time idling than sitting, but Brock isn’t upset about it. In fact, in a few minutes, he isn’t upset about anything.

“You like Foster’s, then?” His voice cuts through the quiet again.

“Hm?”

“The café. Their tiramisu—it’s my favorite.”

“So it’s good, then? Nice, I was looking to try something new tonight.”

“Yeah.” More quiet, and Brock is chewing on his cheek again. Something inside him is looking to escape.

“I got this in Iraq,” he begins, unprovoked, while gesturing to the left side of his face. “Desert Storm, we found a munitions depot and it all went tits-up. A long time back.”

Jack blinks at him. “You’re used to rehearsing that, huh?”

“I guess so.”

A warm chuckle comes from Jack. “My story’s not as noble. I was a dumb kid. I was street-racing with a buddy, lost control of the car.”

“You don’t look like the type to street race.”

“M’not anymore. Figured my shit out. Had a bunch of piercings, but after the accident and the surgery, I hated the idea of putting more metal in my face.”

“You don’t look--”

“Like the kind of guy who has a shitload of piercings?” Jack finishes his thought, and instead of being irritated, Brock smirks. The man smiles back, then reached up to tug on his ear, revealing several healed holes in the cartilage. 

Brock raises his eyebrows. “Goddamn. Young-you sounds like a good time.”   
  
  


“Old-me is just as good of a time, I promise. I’m just smarter about it, now.” Brock thinks maybe he’s reading too much into Jack’s words, hearing the suggestion that isn’t there. This was the most he’s enjoyed a conversation in months, now, and it’s with a stranger in a cab. Except…. Jack doesn’t really feel like a stranger.

He goes to inquire further about Jack’s life, what kind of stuff he considers a good time now. But the cab pulls over to the curb by an apartment complex, and he knows he’s run out of time. They’re in a part of the city that he rarely visits, and that further cements the reality that this meeting was a one-time thing. Jack seems to hesitate a little too, and Brock’s heart has a deceptive kernel of hope bloom within in it. But it fizzles out when Jack goes to pay the driver.

“Alright, Brock. S’been nice. Hope tomorrow’s easier on you,” Jack says, and his hand stutters a moment before reaching to clasp Brock’s shoulder. “Hope you get easier on yourself, too.” 

  
  


He doesn’t know what to say to that, a little too transfixed by the warmth on his shoulder. “...Yeah, man. You too. Enjoy that,” he says, gesturing to the container in Jack’s lap. One last smile from the man.

  
  


Then he’s pulling himself out of the cab, closing the door, and Brock is alone again. The warmth dissipates from his skin as they pull back onto the road.”

“Seemed like a nice guy, huh?” The cab driver’s voice sucks the magic out of the atmosphere even more, and he quietly pulls his hood back up. “A’ight, you said Matthews, right? S’gonna be a bit of a hike--  _ Jesus, fuck _ !”

The cab lurches slightly as the brakes are slammed, and Brock looks up towards the windshield to see Jack, having narrowly avoided being hit. 

“You fuckin’ people, I swear, gonna give me a heart attack,” the driver huffs. Brock’s vaguely aware of the car horns blaring behind them as Jack approaches his side of the cab and opens the door.

“Hey, so uh. I kinda thought about it. If I eat both of these tonight by myself, that just makes me a loser, y’know? And I know you said that these were your favorite--”   
  


_ “Get the fuck outta the road!” _

Jack barely pays the peanut gallery any mind. “What I’m saying is-- do you maybe wanna stop in for a little bit?” 

Brock sheds his hood, and with the hopeful look Jack’s giving him, he doesn’t have it in him to feel insecure. “Yeah, Jack. I really do.”

**Author's Note:**

> For Kalika999, who wanted crispy Brock and meet-uglies. <3


End file.
